Foster, Dean - Spellsinger 03 - The Day of the Dissonance

"But what else can we do?" Jalwar moaned. "None of

us is a wizard or sorcerer. We cannot cure his odd

condition, because it is the result of his own spellsinging."

"Maybe it'll cure itself." Mudge tried to sound optimis-

tic. He watched sadly as Jon-Tom rolled over on the center

cabin and tried to puke again. "I feel sorry for 'im. 'Tis

clear 'e ain't used to liquorish effects." As if to reinforce

the otter's observation, Jon-Tom rolled over again and fell

off the cabin, nearly knocking himself out on the deck.

Lifting himself to a sitting position, he burst out laughing.

He was the only one on the boat who found the situation

amusing.

Mudge shook his head. "Bleedin' pitiful."

"Yes, it is sad," Jalwar agreed.

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Alan Dean Foster

"Cor, but not the way you think it is, mate. 'Ere 'e is,

sufferin' from one o' the finest binges I've ever seen

anybody on, and 'e ain't even had the pleasure o' drinkin'

the booze. Truly pitiful." A glance downward showed

sand looming near.

"Couple o' degrees to starboard, luv!" he called stemward.

"Ah heah y'all." Roseroar adjusted the boat's heading.

The sandy bottom fell away once again.

"It'll wear off," the otter mumbled. "It 'as to. Ain't

nobody can stay drunk this long no matter 'ow strong a

spell's been laid on 'is belly. I wonder when 'e did it?"

"The same tune he did everything else," Jalwar explained.

"Don't you remember the song?"

"You mean that part about it bein' 'the worst trip I've

ever been on'?"

"Not just that. Remember that he made the tigress

captain because she was the best sailor among us? That

would leave him as next in command, would it not?"

"Beats me, mate. I'm not much on ships and their

lore."

"He reduced himself to first mate," Jalwar said posi-

tively. "That was in the song, too. A line that went

something like "The first mate, he got drunk.' "

"Aye, now I recall." The otter nodded toward the

helpless spellsinger, who remained enraptured by a hyste-

ria perceptible only to himself. "So 'e spellsung 'imself

into this condition without even bein' aware o1 doin' it."

"I fear that is the case."

"Downright pitiful. Why couldn't 'e 'ave made me first

mate? I'd 'andle a long drunk like this ten times better than

'e would. 'E's got to come out of it sometime."

"I hope so," said Jalwar. He glanced at the sky.

"Perhaps we will lose this infernal fog, anyway. Then we

might pick up a wind enabling us to turn back."

"Now, I told you, guv," Mudge began, only to be

interrupted by a shout.

What stunned him to silence, however, was not the fact

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

97

of the shout but its origin. It came from the water off to

starboard.

It was repeated. "Ahoy, there! You on the sloop! What's

happenin'!"

"What's happenin'?" Roseroar frowned, tried to see

into the fog. "Jon-Tom, wake up!" The sails continued to

luff against the mainmast.

"Huh? Wash?" Jon-Tom laughed one more time, then

struggled to stand up.

"Ahoy, aboard the sloop!" A new voice this time,

female.

"Wash... whosh that?" He stumbled around the center

cabin and tried to squint into the fog. Neither his eyesight

nor his brain was functioning at optimum efficiency at the

moment.

A second boat materialized out of the mist. It was a low-

slung outboard with a pearlescent fiberglass body. Three ...

no, four people lounged in the vinyl seats. Two couples in

their twenties, all human, all normal size.

"What's happenin', John B.I" asked the young man

standing behind the wheel. He didn't look too steady on

his feet himself. A cooler sat between the front seats, full

of ice and aluminum cans. The cans had names like Coors

and Lone Star on them.

Jon-Tom swayed. He was hallucinating, the next logical

step in his mental disintegration. He leaned over the rail

and tried to focus his remaining consciousness on the funny

cigarette the couple in the front of the boat were passing

back and forth.The other pair were exchanging hits on a

glass pipe.

The big outboard was idling noisily. One girl leaned

over the side to clean her Foster Grants in the ocean. Next

to the beer cooler was a picnic basket. A big open bag of

pretzels sat on top. The twisted, skinny kind that tasted

like pure fried salt. Next to the bag was a two-pound tin of

Planter's Redskin Peanuts, and several brightly colored

tropical fruits.

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Alan Dean Poster

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

99

He tried to will himself sober. If anything could have

cleared his mind, it should have been the sight of the boat

and its occupants. But the uncontrollable power of his own

spellsinging held true. Despite everything he tried, the

self-declared first mate still stayed drunk. He swallowed

the words on his tongue and tried a second time.

"Who... who are you?"

"I'm Charlie MacReady," said the boat's driver cheeri-

ly, through a cannabis-induced fog of his own. He smiled

broadly, leaned down to speak to his girlfriend. "Dig that

getup that guy's got on. Must've been a helluva party!"

Jon-Tom briefly considered his iridescent lizard-skin

cape, his indigo shut, and the rest of his attire. Subdued

clothing... for Clothahump's world.

The girl in the front was having a tough time with her

sunshades. Maybe she didn't realize that the glasses were

clean and that it was her eyes that needed washing out.

She leaned over again and nearly tumbled into the water.

Her boyfriend grabbed the strap of her bikini top and

pulled hard enough to hold her in the boat. Unfortunately,

it was also hard enough to compress certain sensitive parts

of her anatomy. She whirled to swing at him, missed badly

thanks to the effects of what the foursome had been

smoking all morning. For some unknown reason this

started her giggling uncontrollably.

Jon-Tom wasn't laughing anymore. He was battling his

own sozzled thoughts and magically contaminated blood-

stream.

"Who are you people?"

"I told you." The boat's driver spoke with pot-induced

ponderousness. "MacReady's the name. Charles MacReady.

I am a stockbroker from Manhattan. Merrill Lynching.

You know, the bull?" He rested one hand on the shoulder

of the suddenly contemplative woman seated next to him.

She appeared fascinated by the sheen of her nail polish.

"This is Buffy." He nodded toward the front of the

boat. "The two kids up front are Steve and Mary-Ann.

Steve works in my office. Don't you, Steve?" Steve didn't

reply. He and Mary-Ann were giggling in tandem now.

The driver turned back to Jon-Tom. "Who are you?"

"One hell of a good question," Jon-Tom replied thickly.

He glanced down at his outrageous costume. Is this what

happens when you get the DTs? he wondered. Somehow

he'd always imagined having the DTs would involve

stronger hallucinations than a quartet of happily stoned

vacationers loaded down with pot and pretzels.

"My name... my name..." For one terrible instant

there was a soft, puffy blank in his mind where his name

belonged. The kind of disorientation one encounters in a

cheap house of mirrors at the state fair, where you have to

feel your way through to the exit by putting your hands out

in front of you and pushing through the nothingness of

your own reflections.

Meriweather, he told himself. Jonathan Thomas Meri-